


Any Other Night – 1/9 – Smiles

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-10
Updated: 2007-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 1/9 – Smiles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _To Mohinder the differences were subtle. The few times he glanced up and their eyes chanced to meet there was an exchange; there was a slow lift to the hoods of Sylar’s eyes, a fluid movement layered delicately in implication._

 

 

.1 Smiles

 

            It was a night like any other night, with little contact and even less conversation. A night like any other night, were it a week or two ago; but it was different now, neither comfortable nor casual. Instead, such a night was filled with the consequences of sacrifices and offerings, filled with silences where there might have been words. After respective showers, dinner was made, dinner was eaten, and each man withdrew into his own space: Mohinder at his desk with his computer and Sylar in a chair with a book. The clock ticked on.

            To Mohinder, the differences were subtle. The few times he glanced up and their eyes chanced to meet, there was an exchange; there was a slow lift to the hoods of Sylar’s eyes, a fluid movement layered delicately with implication. Mohinder had never noticed it before tonight. Never attributed that delving look in Sylar’s eyes as a desire for anything more than a complicated and deliberate move across the chess board of life; the king could only move one step at a time.

            But now, when Sylar turned his deep brown eyes to acknowledge the weight of Mohinder’s gaze, Mohinder heard phrases like ‘ _Do you want it?_ ’ and ‘ _I’ll give you everything, Mohinder,_ ’ gasped through impassioned breaths. The delicate hairs on the back of Mohinder’s neck began to stand, and he dropped his look downward to avoid Sylar’s invading one from coaxing more color into his face.

            Hours ago, Mohinder had given this man his body. Or had it been taken by him? Immediately after, he had shrugged it off casually, but neither one could deny that something had changed. The very air between them was different. Sylar stared a little too long, Mohinder glanced a little too often, and no words seemed natural spoken between them when the knowledge that a time when no words were necessary had come to pass.

            Sylar had noticed this, too.

            When Sylar chanced to ask a question, Mohinder’s lips quirked into the barest smile before he replied in brief, as if each question flattered him that it had been spoken at all. But then Mohinder just as quickly drifted away, unable to be drawn into conversations akin to the ones they’d had only days before, those animated debates over some genetic theory or implausible philosophy of life; he had shut Sylar out in some way, disconnected them. The tension set Sylar’s teeth on edge. After taking Mohinder’s body, had he made no progress at all? The very thought was aggravating, a slow agitation gnawing forever at the back of his mind. His body was satisfied, for now, but something else was not. He had no idea what that was.

            The hour spent staring blankly in Mohinder’s direction as Sylar brooded over this passed unnoticed, and he was neither jarred by the changes in Mohinder’s heartbeat whenever he glanced up nor the screeching of his chair across wood when the man shifted in discomfort. It was the phone that finally broke his concentration.

            Mohinder jumped at the sudden ring, the rolling of one tone off another. He took in a sharp breath and lifted the portable, hitting the talk button. “Hello?”

            Sylar quirked his head slightly to the side, trying to place the voice he heard squealing through phone static that penetrated Mohinder’s ear. Bennet. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he closed his book, glancing to the clock. Eleven.

            “Yes, yes I understand,” Mohinder was saying. He stood from his chair and walked around his desk, turning a little to this side and that. He could never sit still on the phone; Sylar had learned that as Zane Taylor. Mohinder paced from one side to the next, fingers trailing across surfaces- the desk, the back of a chair, the table, as if verifying their existence since the person he spoke to could not. “Do you think that- yes. Mmm.”

            Standing slowly from his chair, Sylar placed his book on the nearby table. He crossed the room and jumped when Mohinder nearly collided with him in his absent pacing. The darker man lifted a hand, one finger pointed, and motioned vaguely towards Sylar in some ‘Hold on, I’ll only be a moment,’ indication. 

            Sylar’s lips twitched into a tiny smile, and he continued past without comment. He wasn’t asking for attention, but Mohinder’s distracted signal was an endearing assumption that he was. Even more charming was the dismissal of Sylar as unimportant by comparison. How… Mohinder.

            In the bedroom, the sheets were mussed, strewn in all directions and stained with the results of Sylar’s conquest. It somehow made the room more natural, more livable, more acceptable to Sylar’s vision. On a level, he liked it like that; he liked to see the bed marked and symbolic of his change, his final transformation out of the tidy, orderly life of Gabriel Gray. Certainly what had occurred between them was far from what that weak man could have accomplished. Gabriel Gray was all rounded corners, crisp sterile sheets, and smooth bedspreads. And yet Sylar found himself shutting the bedroom door and taking from the cabinets a fresh set of sheets anyway.

            Trivial, Sylar told himself. It was a trivial matter, changing the sheets. He was doing it because Mohinder would have wanted it, and he had yet to manipulate the man into his full trust. The part of Gabriel Gray that Sylar kept captive was just that; slave to his need for subjugating Mohinder. Any normal person made the bed. Any normal person laid out fresh sheets, tucked in their corners carefully, placed a top sheet beneath the comforter. Any normal person laid the comforter evenly over the pillows and then turned down the covers in welcome expectation of sleep. Anyone would have done it, not just Gabriel Gray, he told himself.

            Sylar would climb between these sheets tonight.

 

            Plans were set. Tentative and underhanded as they were, they were set. Mohinder felt relieved that Bennet had pulled through in arranging his escape from New York City, but beneath his relief was the pulse of anxiety he felt for conveniently avoiding any mention of Sylar taken beneath his wing. Bennet had arranged a safehouse, money, even a car waiting for him under an alias; but like most things in this world of transience, Mohinder knew this house of cards they had built was only seconds from collapse once the name ‘Sylar’ was whispered. 

            When he replaced the phone on the receiver it was almost quarter to midnight. Mohinder glanced about the room and found himself surprised he was alone. When had Sylar slipped off? Mohinder wondered what he should tell him, how he should broach the topic of their furtive escape. Sylar was no stranger to it, surely, but being the sheep to hide a wolf from other wolves was an alien concept to Mohinder. Alien, but not beyond his capability.

            Mohinder began to wonder what his limits were, now. He had taken his jumps as leaps and bounds once he’d crossed into America after his father’s murder. He’d changed. It had been a naïve obsession that drove him at first, and slowly Mohinder had grown out of his strange combination of inexperienced trust and bitter cynicism into something else entirely. Something that needed desperate kisses from serial killers and moaned satisfaction from hands that rung blood out of the innocent. 

            Shuddering softly, he dismissed the thought as thoroughly as possible. Mohinder stepped behind the desk and closed his laptop before turning around to face himself. To face the crack between bookcases, the last pure part of his former self that he still guarded with his life. A quick glance told him the bedroom door was shut. Mohinder slipped his hand between the wooden boundaries and from behind the shelf peeled away the tape holding his treasure in place. Sylar had never even seen this device in his possession before; the only name attached to the knowledge of this portable hard drive had been Eden- Sarah- whichever she had died wanting to be. Mohinder slid the item into his jeans pocket. This would be a part of his escape as well.

            Finally, Mohinder turned off the lights in the living room and made his way to the bedroom. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find- the room empty, perhaps, the sound of water running in the bathroom, Sylar sitting on the edge of the bed, having listened to his conversation using remnants of Dale Smither- but what he found was far more surprising.

            Sylar’s back, touched by the curve of warm lamplight from the nightstand, faced Mohinder. His back, without shirt, but covered partway by the comforter he had drawn over himself. 

            Sylar, in his bed.

            Mohinder wasn’t sure exactly what to think of such a thing. It seemed forward, inappropriate. Mohinder’s uneasiness crept up through his chest and to his throat, where he swallowed. The first night in his bed, Sylar had an excuse with the icy temperatures they both endured, but somehow the thought hadn’t even occurred to Mohinder that sex between them had also initiated intimacy. A sweaty, needy, desperate groping for satisfaction had ensued today. Intimacy wasn’t a privilege of sex; they simply hadn’t had it.

            Rubbing an arm, Mohinder took several slow steps forward, leaning over with a tilt of his head to see if Sylar truly slept. Sylar’s eyes were shut, his mouth parted slightly, and his bare chest rose with rhythmic breathing. This close, Mohinder could see small red lines from the previous day’s cuts across Sylar’s shoulder blades. With them were small aggravated areas of red, thicker lines that first appeared to mark where medical tape had been torn away. But when Mohinder investigated closer and counted their patterns he felt his stomach drop and his face flood with color; they were the scores of fingernails- his own- embedding the memory of their morning deeply into flesh.

            Mohinder stifled a shaky breath and disappeared into the bathroom to wash up. The kinds of mortification this man made him feel were inconceivable. As he brushed his teeth, Mohinder debated his options. He could fall asleep at his desk intentionally for once, he reasoned, but then he might not get all the rest he needed to start driving tomorrow. He could trade places with Sylar and sleep in the pull-out bed in the other room, certainly. But that seemed… almost insulting. When he thought of the uneasy words Sylar had spoken this morning- _“Don’t look at me like you don’t understand.”-_ Mohinder wondered how many times in his life Sylar had faced rejection, and by whom. How sensitive was he, really? Making as much progress as he felt he was, Mohinder suddenly feared the idea of pushing Sylar’s limits in the delicate area of relationships.

            Was that what they had? A relationship?

            In some form, perhaps. Some vague, twisted, unclear form. Defining it would only make things difficult. Defining things gave privileges and prerogatives. Mohinder didn’t plan on simply giving Sylar free reign to his body. Was this even going to happen again? By the time Mohinder stood beside his bed once more, gazing down at Sylar’s still figure, he felt his skin itching with unease. Lots of people slept together. Lots of people slept together and it meant nothing. Why should they be any different? 

            Stripping down to his boxers and pulling back the covers as quietly as possible, Mohinder let his legs disappear beneath the sheets. He lay down carefully, eyes on Sylar’s face in the dim light. He looked calm, at peace, almost… content. Dark stubble marked his features in a way Mohinder wasn’t used to, and Sylar’s hair seemed to be getting too long for that way he let it spike a little at the top lately. 

            …It didn’t have to mean anything. Why make things even more complicated? And if Mohinder let it passively slip into the realm of the forgotten, the casually ignored, perhaps Sylar would choose not to acknowledge it either. What good was a relationship born from some fusion of love, hate, and hunger, anyway? It was doomed to crash and burn like so many other of their encounters.

            Mohinder turned his body over, placing his back to Sylar as he had done the first night. It was nothing but some unexpected tryst, some venture into the unknown drawn from lust and unexpected licentiousness. If Mohinder could ignore it, everything would be alright.

            Sylar’s eyes opened, and the light went out.

 

            In the morning, Mohinder’s bed was empty. Rather, it was empty of Mohinder, and Sylar found himself questioning how deep a sleep he must have been in for the man to slip away unnoticed. Sylar rubbed an eye, reaching for the curve of the mattress beside him with his other hand, but found it was cold and long abandoned. The clock read 7:00 in bold red numbers, and Sylar’s brows furrowed in confusion.

            As he slid from beneath the covers and entered the bathroom to begin his morning routine, Sylar listened hard, but Mohinder’s familiar confident footsteps were not to be heard. Only workers stirring and alarm clocks wailing riddled through his ears. Splashing his face with cold water, Sylar lifted his eyes and stared into his own face in the mirror for a long moment, the reality of the situation clicking all at once.

            Mohinder was gone. 

            Sylar turned and grabbed the door, hurrying back through the bedroom and into the main room. He stopped there- two suitcases were sitting out, one on the kitchen table, one on the chair next to it. A glance to the right made Sylar realize Mohinder’s laptop was still resting on the desk. He let out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding. Scared? He couldn’t have been. It was irritation, surely; but even the empty bed hadn’t alarmed him. He was getting slow. He was getting trusting. But he’d be more careful from now on.

            Rubbing the back of his neck, Sylar gave a sleepy grunt and wandered back into the bedroom to clean himself up. 

 

            When Mohinder returned, one of the suitcases was gone. Rather, one of the suitcases was no longer in the kitchen. Upon investigation, Mohinder found it resting on his bed (which was neatly made) with the lid already closed. As he reached out to test its weight, Sylar managed to appear from the unseen as he often did.

            “Hey. Busy morning?” he asked casually. Sylar stood in the bathroom door, showered and alert now. He wore the black turtle-neck sweater Mohinder had bought him and brought to the hospital and a pair of dark gray slacks that had been added to the collection later. The cut made Sylar look taller, and when Mohinder spun around to see him, the effect was rather sharp. It earned Sylar an unintentional look once from head to toe, making him smile wryly. “Figured I should pack.”

            “…Yes,” Mohinder replied, clearing his throat a little. He was dressed in stark contrast, blue jeans, a slightly offensive green shirt, and his brightly colored scarf worn against the cold of the outside, which he then began to unwind. “We’ll be leaving shortly. I still have to get my things together.” Mohinder walked forward, expecting Sylar to move from the entrance of the bathroom, but there was a slight delay, making them both pause anxiously for a split second.

            “-Sorry.” Sylar moved aside, turning his head to watch Mohinder begin to gather up his bathroom items. “…Where are we going?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest nonchalantly and observing the way Mohinder worked in a slight hurry, but not a panicked one. 

            “A little place in Iowa, it seems. I’ve never been. I guess I’ll get to see more of the country, right?” Mohinder tried to keep up the casual tone, though the thoughts of his last driving experience scratched quietly at the back of his mind.

            “That’s what road trips are usually for,” Sylar replied, hearing the way Mohinder’s blood quickened at those words. The tension was obvious. He frowned a little to himself and looked away, tapping his fingers against the bicep beneath his sweater. An uncomfortable silence followed while Mohinder pushed past him again to retrieve his clothing. Sylar began to feel mildly irritated. Was Mohinder acting this awkward because of yesterday, or because they were going on a road trip? Mohinder’s aversions made Sylar feel prickly. “So… Are we-”

            “I’ve rented a car under another name,” Mohinder interrupted. “And I went to withdraw money this morning. We’ll leave in a few minutes. We have a long way to drive.”

            Sylar couldn’t help but smile a little, anyway. We. 

 

            Two days.

            Two days of phone calls and favors and ‘You’re really pushing it, Preston,’ being lectured and scolded over and over again. Even Murphy was saying by now ‘You gotta wait and see what happens. You can’t rush this.’ But Preston knew. Adrian Preston knew that Mohinder Suresh was a guilty party, linked inevitably to this mess with Gabriel Gray. He just had to figure out how.

            To figure out how, he needed a warrant, and for two days he hunted every judge in the city he could possibly call in a favor from and staked his reputation on connecting the dots between Gabriel Gray and Mohinder Suresh. It was a weak link at best in the eyes of the law. The seemingly unconnected death of a father, the outright murder of a mother, and the widened eyes of Mohinder Suresh when he saw some ‘Sylar’ figure’s face behind the innocent glasses of a watchmaker.

            As he sat outside Suresh’s apartment building in his car, Preston thought about the risk he would be taking, the chance of having to take early retirement if he dropped the ball on a high stakes murder case. But it’d be worth it. He had a gut feeling about this, and fifteen years of good detective work and gut feelings had never proved him wrong.

            “Alright, let’s go,” he confirmed over his radio, unlocking his door and stepping out. At least one judge in the city had leant him some faith. Now he had to show them he was right. 

            Climbing the steps with three officers and the super in tow, Preston thought of what Mohinder Suresh’s face would look like when he realized what was going to happen. Would he break down, like so many did beneath the weight of a warrant? No, that didn’t seem like the man they’d encountered in the interrogation room. Instead, Preston saw an impassive face, a subtly annoyed expression of resentment and obstinate refusal to admit guilt. Preston had a bad feeling, along with his gut one. The forceful will Mohinder Suresh exhibited he had seen before: it was the kind of determination usually associated with the impression that one was just. If Suresh was doing something because he felt he was right, Preston would be pulling teeth to get answers.

            Three sharp knocks on the door.

            “Mohinder Suresh! This is the police! Open up!” Preston called sharply.

            He was met with silence, but Preston didn’t wait for a second request. He nodded to the super with the key and had the door unlocked while he pulled his gun warily. Taking a second to gather himself, Preston pushed the door open and lifted his handgun immediately.

            There were two of them.

            Two of them stared back down the barrel at Preston, and that was what caused him to lower his weapon.

            Two perfectly empty wooden chairs sat side by side in the center of an empty room.

            Two of them gazed back at Adrian Preston, and he was sure that, somewhere between their wooden teeth, they smiled

   



End file.
